…I looked at him for a long moment, trying to understand how far he wanted to go.

I nodded without saying anything, because in his eyes there was a calm determination that I had never seen before, something firm, something definitive.

That night I sat in front of my laptop, going through folders I had avoided opening for months, maybe years, looking for moments I never imagined anyone else would see.

There were videos of Lily in the hospital, her little head barely covered by a cotton cap, her skin pale and her eyes too big for her little face.

There were also photos of Leo sitting next to his sister, holding her little hand with a seriousness that did not correspond to his five years, as if he understood more than he should.

I found the video where the doctor explained, in a soft voice, why Lily’s hair wouldn’t grow back, at least not for a long time.

Then another one, where Leo asked if he could give his hair to his sister, if that would make her feel better or if that way he could “lend her a little bit of sunshine”.

I felt my throat close up as I edited, cutting scenes, arranging memories, trying to make everything make sense without needing too many words.

When I finished, the video was only three minutes long, but it weighed like years of silences, decisions, and small promises made in hushed tones.

I showed it to Mark without saying anything.

He watched it all, without interrupting, his hands clasped on the table, and in the end he simply nodded, as if everything was confirmed.

“That’s enough,” he said softly.

Sunday came too quickly.

I dressed Leo carefully, trying to make sure his shaved head wasn’t the first thing people noticed, although I knew it would be impossible.

He didn’t complain, but he didn’t talk much either, and that hurt me more than any crying.

Before leaving, I asked her if she wanted to wear the curl she had kept since Thursday.

He took it out of a small box and held it in his hand, looking at it as if it were something fragile and valuable at the same time.

—Yes —she whispered—, it’s for Lily.

In the car, the silence was heavy but not uncomfortable.

Mark drove with his eyes fixed straight ahead, while I watched our children in the rearview mirror, feeling that something important was about to break or heal.

When we arrived, Brenda already had the table ready, as always, impeccable, perfect, as if nothing had happened.

She greeted us with a broad smile, too broad, as if happiness could cover any crack.

“There they are!” he exclaimed. “Come in, come in, the food is almost ready.”

Her eyes paused for a second on Leo’s head, but she said nothing, only nodded slightly, as if silently congratulating herself.

That’s what hurt me the most.

We sat down at the table with other family members, light conversations filled the air, laughter that seemed out of place, as if someone had changed the script without warning.

Leo stayed close to me, his little hand squeezing mine under the table, seeking a security he hadn’t needed to ask for before.

Dinner progressed with courses being served and trivial comments, until Brenda finally spoke about what everyone was avoiding.

“Well,” he said, cutting a piece of meat, “I think Leo looks much better now. More… appropriate.”

The silence fell suddenly.

I felt Mark’s body tense up next to me, but he didn’t speak immediately.

Instead, he slowly got up from his chair and walked into the living room without saying a word.

He returned with the laptop in his hand.

Brenda frowned, confused.

“What are you doing, Mark?” she asked, trying to maintain control of the situation.

He did not answer.

He placed the laptop on the table, turning it towards everyone, and pressed a key.

The video began to play.

At first, nobody understood what they were seeing.

Lily in the hospital.

Leo sat next to him.

The sound of soft machines, the murmur of medical voices, the weight of something that is not said but is felt.

Brenda stopped moving.

His knife hung suspended in the air, forgotten, while his eyes fixed on the screen.

Then came the part where Leo asked about her hair.

“Can I give it to Lily?” she said in a small voice. “That way she won’t look sad.”

An even deeper silence filled the dining room.

Nobody was breathing.

Nobody dared to look at anyone.